Читать книгу Rosie Dixon's Complete Confessions - Rosie Dixon - Страница 17

I am very distressed by my experience with Seamus MacSweeney—especially when the dirty brute shambles off into the night with no more than a belch in my direction. Even when he sobers up he does not apologise. “Like a velvet fox glove,” he husks, settling his hand on my mons venus. “Let’s probe for pollen.” It really is too bad when you consider that my silence probably saved his career.

I am also getting increasingly choked by the extent to which my virginity is becoming threatened. Like most girls I want to be delivered in mint condition on my wedding day and at the moment some of the post marks are gettting dangerously near to spoiling the issue.

Of course, once again, to all intents and purposes, I was raped, so my mental condition is in no way threatened. This is by far the most important factor but I do worry sometimes about the effect these unwelcome pussy pummellers are having on my spasm chasm—I don’t want it to be turned into alley valley before my wedding day. The man I marry will no doubt be sophisticated and have had lots of experiences with girls freer than myself and I would hate him to get the wrong impression.

Thank goodness I am on the Pill in these free and easy times, when no girl is safe from attack.

Christmas is approaching fast and the white trimming on the robe of the Father Christmas in the local department store has already turned grey. I had been expecting to go home on the day, but there are so many nurses who come from faraway parts of the country that I quite understand when I am asked if I will stay on duty and take some leave afterwards. Geoffrey has asked me to the New Year’s Eve Dance at the tennis club and so this will fit in very well.

Christmas at home is always the same anyway. Natalie and I agree not to give each other anything, Dad gets three pairs of Marks and Sparks socks and Mum a jar of bath salts she never uses. We all make excited noises as we open the presents we have helped each other wrap up and Natalie starts eating glacé fruits before breakfast Dad goes off to the boozer and gets paralytic and Natalie watches the carol service on the telly and says which of the blokes in the choir she fancies moSt Mum gets on with the cooking and has “a little glass of something to keep herself company.” By the time Dad gets back from the pub covered in lipstick, she is as pissed as he is and Natalie has started on the chocolates filled with Babycham. We all sit down to dinner at about three o’clock and Dad says a few words about family unity, before tearing Mum off a strip because he reckons the turkey has not been in long enough. Natalie has to go upstairs after three mouthfuls and we find out that we have just missed the Queen’s speech. We get the telly on in time for the national anthem and Dad insists on us all standing up—he gets very patriotic when he is pissed. The Christmas pudding won’t light because Mum has poured olive oil over it instead of brandy and Dad breaks his dentures on one of the lucky threepenny bits that have been used for so many years they have a coating of green mould on them. After dinner we decide to go for a walk but by the time Natalie has come out of the toilet it is dark so we spend the rest of the day in front of the telly. Dad falls asleep with his hands down the front of his trousers and Mum nods off over The Stars’ Christmas Party which was recorded in July.

The whole occasion is not something I am going to miss very much.

Not, of course, that Christmas is anything less than a big deal at Queen Adelaide’s. All the wards are decorated and Father Christmas, played by a senior consultant in one of his sober moments, tours the children’s wards and grapples enthusiastically with any nurse he can get his hands on. “A time of grope and good cheer” is how Penny describes it and there are few male patients who don’t seem to have found a sprig of mistletoe. Mr Arkwright’s invitations to play “naughty nanas” take on a seasonal ring and everybody tells me what “tremendous fun” the staff lunch is going to be. Apparently the doctors and sisters serve the nurses and everybody pulls crackers and drinks wine. It sounds almost as exciting as being at home.

In fact, Christmas in a hospital is fun. There is always a great deal of work to do and time never hangs on your hands as it can do at home when you just sit around waiting for the next eating session.

I arrive for the staff lunch, late, exhausted and ravenously hungry and it is clear that most of my fellow nurses have benefited from a few drops of Christmas cheer during the course of the morning.

“Over here, Rosie, we’ve kept you a place.”

Penny has not gone home for Christmas, either. She is nuts about one of her patients and does not reckon that festive high jinks with Daddy would be much cop anyway: “His idea of Christmas is to go out and shoot something—preferably my mother, but he’ll have to settle for pheasants until he buys an elephant gun. I’ve laid every man in the parish under sixty apart from the vicar’s son and apparently he’s useless—his sister told me—so what is there to go home for? Anyway, staying here is the best Christmas present I can give them.”

I push in beside Penny and notice that Tom Richmond is giving Nurse Wilson’s lips the vacuum cleaner treatment under what looks like a human toe with an arrow through it. From the arrow hangs a sign saying “MISSILETOE”. Really! These medical school jokes go too far sometimes. That is the kind of thing that MacSweeney would think was funny. I look round and see him carving a huge turkey with Robert Fishlock. He does something very unnecessary with a sausage and winks at me. I know he is going to say “breast or leg” and leer at me when it comes to my turn.

“Did you hear about the great romance on your old ward?” asks Penny, arranging a paper hat on the back of her head so that her breasts are shown off to the best advantage in the process.

“Jim North and old Mr Chapman’s daughter. They’re going to get spliced. They wanted to haye the ceremony in the ward but Matron said, over her dead body. I thought it was quite a good idea, myself. I mean, they probably wouldn’t have been able to see each other over her dead body but—”

“Oh, do stop being such a fool and pass your plate up.” The girl on Penny’s right knocks her glass over and in the confusion the subject is changed. I feel a slight pang of envy when I think about Jim North and the Chapman girl. I did not fancy him myself but it means that there is one less male left in the pool of available talent. The numbers are being whittled away before my thighs—I mean, eyes.

“I thought we were getting champagne,” sniffs Penny, holding up one of the bottles on the table. “‘Portuguese Graves’. I think the body was still warm when it went into this one.”

“Do you think I could squeeze in between you when I’ve finished my duties?” Dishy Doctor Fishlock flashes his pearlies at us and distributes a couple of plates of turkey.

“Please do.” Penny turns on her breathless “come and get me” voice and I can practically see dotted lines building up between their eyes.

“What time have you got to be back on duty?” I ask Penny.

“Just as soon as I’ve gobbled this lot down and allowed Flashcock to lure me back to his pad for a cup of coffee we won’t have time to make.”

“You’re so cold blooded about it.” I don’t mean to sound jealous, it just comes out that way.

“Rubbish! My blood is as warm as this plonk. You’re the one with the deep frozen knickers.”

Further discussion is prevented by the arrival of Robert who settles in between us and proceeds to direct a non-stop stream of rabbit at my room-mate. This does not please me very much and I am not over-thrilled when Adam “Blackbeard” Quint’s enormous bulk settles down opposite me. “Would you like my belly on the table or underneath it?” he asks. He is not kidding either, because he has a paunch like a couple of sofa cushions shoved up his jumper. Penny says that she finds him “sexy in a revolting sort of way” and I wish she would prove it and leave me to chat up Doctor Fastcock—I mean Fishlock. Why do I keep making those silly mistakes? It would be so easy for someone to get the wrong idea.

“If this turkey is a typical example of our surgeons’ work I hope I never come under the knife.” Quint examines a scrap of meat on the end of his fork and smiles at me. He is an irritating man because nothing you say or do seems to affect him. He goes his own way. “Hey, boy.” The big, black Labrador that has been stretched out by one of the radiators pricks up its ears and sidles over to receive the meat.

“Who looks after him when you’re on duty?” I ask.

“My landlady. She likes dogs and she has a son who takes him for walks …”

He should take you as well, I think as I watch Quint’s belly half obscuring his plate. I can see hairs peeping out of the front of his shirt. So repulsive, I mean, I like hairy men but he is like an animal. I shudder to think of what he must look like without any clothes on.

“Have some more wine. It tastes like gnat’s piss but there’s nothing else.” Quint fills my glass to the brim before I can say anything and puts half a sausage in his mouth. “Cheers.”

I remove the piece of sausage from the front of my uniform and raise my glass. He is so uncouth but it is Christmas and I don’t want to be unkind.

On my right, Fatcock—I mean, Fishlock is telling Penny about this book where they had a dinner party and the man put blobs of cream on the girl’s breasts and licked them off. It does not take them long to get down to brass tacks, does it? Penny is saying that brandy butter would be even better. She does ask for trouble, that girl.

“I was thinking of going for a walk after lunch,” says Robert. “Would you like to come?”

“I’m not so sure about the walk,” says Penny. “But the rest of it sounds delicious.”

Robert takes a swig of wine and I can see his nostrils quivering. “Would you care to pull my cracker?” he drawls.

“Love to.”

They grapple under the table for a few minutes where there is a tired crack—I hasten to add that this comes from the cracker they have just pulled.

“What have you got?”

“Another hat.” Robert picks up the motto and starts reading: “What is eight inches long, two inches thick and has two balls?”

“A twin compartment, swivel lid pencil box.”

“That’s right. It could hardly be anything else, could it?”

“It could have been my cock if it had been a couple of inches longer,” says Quint crudely. “Anybody fancy any more turkey?”

“No, thank you,” I say coldly.

“Go on. You don’t look like a girl who has to worry about her figure.”

The blooming cheek of the man! He looks like an advertisement for Michelin tyres and he dares to talk about figures. By the time I have thought of something cutting enough to say, he has taken my plate and shambled off.

“I think he quite fancies you,” says Penny.

“I wouldn’t go for him if he was the last man on earth,” I say furiously.

“You wouldn’t get the chance, darling. I’d be standing over him with a shotgun. How much longer do we have to stay here, Robert?”

“The consultants will carry the flaming Christmas pudding round the flaming room a couple of flaming times and then Matron will say a few flaming words and we’ll give her three flaming cheers and piss off—those of us who can still flaming well stand, that is.”

Robert is quite right about the standing up bit. Everybody around me seems to be well away. Thank goodness poor Labby is not here to see the way her fiancé is behaving with Nurse Wilson. I would not have thought she was like that. Still waters run deep, obviously. And look at Sister Bradley with Shameless. I always thought there was something a bit funny about her. The way he is fiddling with the berries on her holly suggests that they might know each other a bit better than the average doctor and sister in the hospital. Of course, if she pins it there she is asking for trouble.

“Here you are. The turkey was finished so I brought you some Christmas pudding. Do you like it flambé?”

Quint dumps a large helping of flaming pudding in front of me.

“It’s a bit large,” I say.

“Then leave it for a few minutes, it will have burnt away to nothing.”

“I thought you said the consultants were going to carry the pudding round the room?” says Penny.

“Probably the plate was too hot or they cut themselves during the last operation,” says Quint, spraying us with beard-shredded Christmas pudding.

“Or they didn’t want to run the gauntlet of that lot,” Robert nods towards a group of housemen armed with roast potatoes and sprouts who are shouting and booing.

“Oh what fun,” squeals Penny. “Just like Dublin.”

In a few moments it is more like Belfast as a hail of missiles fills the air and people start taking shelter under the tables. I would expect the senior staff to go spare but I see Mr Hockey, one of the top surgeons, hurling rolls with the best of them while Matron is carefully filling her glass below table level.

“I’d love to stay for Matron’s speech,” murmurs Penny into my ear, “but Robert thinks it will be safer at his place. See you.” She gives me a broad wink and the dirty duo scamper towards the door. It’s all right for some, I think bitterly. Of course, I don’t envy them the sex. That isn’t my scene anyway. But I would like a little companionship—especially at Christmas time. At the moment I have nothing except the uncouth Quint, who eats like an extra in an Elizabethan banquet scene. I look across the table and even he seems to have disappeared. The dying embers of his Christmas pudding are extinguished by a direct hit from a dollop of mashed potato. He must be cowering under the table.

“Fellow Adelaideans.” The old geezer sitting next to Matron is trying to make himself heard by banging a bottle on the table. Unfortunately the one he has chosen still has quite a lot of wine in it. “Fellow Adelaideans. We’ve all had a lot of fun and I’m glad to see that your healthy high spirits don’t diminish with the years. But now it’s time to be serious for a minute—” He ducks just in time as a piece of Christmas pudding spatters harmlessly against the wall behind him. There is a shout of “Let the stupid old fart finish what he’s saying.” This is acknowledged with a gracious nod from the head table and a few seconds later Matron rises to her feet still brushing the Graves from her bemedalled bosom. At the same instant I become aware of something rubbing against my knee. What is happening below the table? Is that crude brute, Quint, trying some clumsy pass? I am feeling about as Christmassy as a pair of punctured water wings and in no mood for high jinks. I am fed up with octogenarians molesting me and being exposed to every time I go down the street. Now is the time to take a stand!

An opportunity is not slow to present itself. As Matron starts droning on about the debt we owe to Christian ideals and the kitchen staff I feel something firm, moist and hairy pressing between my legs. This is too much! Quint has chosen the wrong moment to force his unwelcome attentions on me. Gritting my teeth, I draw back a foot and lash out with all my might.

The yelp that follows is impressive, as is the way the table rises a couple of feet into the air. Those Labradors are strong—especially when you kick one of them in the balls. I spring back so fast that the bench I am sitting on collapses and Boy seizes the table cloth and pulls everything on to the floor for twenty feet. It is only the return of his master from the toilet that prevents him from mauling one of the senior consultants who is trying to climb onto a serving trolley.

“Why the hell did you do that?” snarls Quint, when some kind of order has been restored and it is explained to him what happened.

“I thought he was you,” I mutter.

Quint’s laugh is short and insulting. “You flatter yourself, don’t you, woman? You must live in some kind of fantasy world if you honestly believe I’d be likely to make a pass at you.”

It is at that moment that I decide I hate Adam Quint more than any other living thing in the world. There is nothing more infuriating than being spurned by a man you would not touch with a bargepole.

After Christmas everybody is in a filthy mood and good cheer is spread thinner than the marge on the dining hall bread. The patients all behave like kids who have been told that they can’t have any more sweets and the medical staff are liverish and hungover.

In the circumstances, the Eastwood Tennis Club New Year’s Eve Ball suddenly looms like Cinderella’s big night and this is probably one of the reasons why it is such a disaster. That and the fact that Geoffrey does not tell me it is fancy dress—and the fact that nobody realises I am not wearing fancy dress. When the secretary’s wife compliments me on my Carmen Miranda costume I could kill her. The live band is not a success—in fact it is arguable whether some of them are alive and it is the worst possible night for the central heating to break down. I had not realised that we were going with Geoffrey’s mother and father and Mrs Wilkes keeps looking at me and pursing her mouth. When I ask for a vodka and orange I think her lips are going to disappear for good. “Are you sure that’s not too strong, dear?” she says.

“Don’t worry, Mumsie,” says Geoffrey cheerfully. “Rosie drinks like a fish.”

Mrs Wilkes smiles like she believes it and I wish I had a cigar to light up. Why does he have to call her Mumsie? It makes me want to throw up.

“Care to take a turn round the floor?” says Mr W. rising to his feet. “I’ve got something I want to talk to you about.”

Probably going to ask me if my intentions are honourable, I think to myself as Dadsie draws me to him like a life jacket and sets off on an energetic quickstep—the band are playing a waltz but I am not fussy as long as I can keep my feet out of the way; it would help if we danced in the same direction as everyone else, though.

“It’s my feet,” says Mr W. “You see I get this strange twitching sensation every time I go on the escalator.” I stifle a groan with difficulty. Once people know you are a nurse they start asking all the questions they would never have the cheek to ask a doctor unless they were one of his patients.

“I haven’t got on to feet yet,” I say, wishing I could say the same for the bloke who has just given me flat toes. “You’d better see a doctor.”

Over Dad’s shoulder I can see Mumsie watching us as if she expects me to start coaxing the old man’s cock out at any minute. I know she does not think I am good enough to whiten Geoffrey’s tennis shoes but I wish she would not make it so obvious. If she knew about her precious son and Natalie maybe she would not continue to think that the sun shone through the slit in his Y-fronts. Little Madam said a few typically unnecessary things when I mentioned I was going out with Geoffrey. I suppose it must have been jealousy but there was no need for her to repeat the lies told by those horrible ton-up boys. She should never have seen Ted again, let alone believed all that rubbish about me loving every moment of my horrible ordeal in mum’s bedroom. Just shows you what family loyalty means when you have a rotten little slut for a sister.

“How’s your mother keeping?” says Mrs Wilkes when I hobble back to the table.

“How is she keeping what?” I say. I don’t like her, you see. Mrs W. gives a tinkling laugh like a piano going over the edge of a cliff. “I meant, of course, is she well? I never seem to see her these days.”

Nor will you, I think to myself. Not if she sees you firSt Mum is terrified of Mrs W. and will go to any lengths to avoid her. I tell her not to be stupid and that the Wilkes are just as common as we are really, but it does no good. Old man Wilkes owns an electrical goods shop and is a Rotarian. My old man is a builder’s foreman and a Sagittarian. They might come from two different worlds as far as Mum is concerned.

“Your father doesn’t play golf, does he?” says Mr W.

He knows bloody well that my old man does not know a brassie from a brassiere.

“He used to watch Leyton Orient till they put the prices up,” I say. “I think you’re drinking my vodka, Mrs Wilkes.”

“Oh. Was that yours? I thought it was my orange juice. I’ll have to be careful, won’t I? I don’t want to get tiddly.”

I force myself to smile and look round for Geoffrey. He is dancing with the girl who is his mixed doubles partner. She has very protruding teeth and I reckon she has to be careful not to stand too near the net.

“They move well, don’t they?” drones Mrs W. “Sometimes I wonder if they’re going to be partners for life. Linda’s such a lovely girl, isn’t she?”

Linda Allcock’s dad has a Rover 2000 so it is no surprise that she is favourite with Ma Wilkes. “Lovely,” I echo.

“And how’s your sister? She’s such a gay little thing, isn’t she?”

Mrs W. manages to say “gay little thing” like she means raving nymphomaniac. She is right of course but blood is thicker than water.

“She’s doing very well,” I say.

“I always see her with a new boy. She knows how to do the rounds, doesn’t she? Not like you, you’ve stuck to our Geoffrey for years, haven’t you?”

“You make me sound like a burr,” I say acidly. “Will you excuse me for a moment? I’ve just seen someone I don’t know over the other side of the room.”

Mrs Wilkes gets further up my bracket than a slim inhaler and I would love to do the dance of the seven veils in the middle of the floor. The trouble is that this is exactly what she would like me to do. Anything that turned Geoffrey off would make her evening. If I wanted to give her a coronary I would get Geoffrey to announce our engagement just before the last waltz. There are limits, though.

In the end I content myself with ordering two double vodkas at the bar and telling the upper class twit behind it to get Geoffrey to pay for them. I knock them back like a female Humphrey Bogart and hardly remember anything that happens during the rest of the evening. Mrs W. says something pointed about me leading the conga into the gents but I expect that she was exaggerating as usual.

When I get back to the nurses home it is to find the place in an uproar. Apparently, Penny is with Matron and it is rumoured that she is going to be sacked.

“What happened?” I say to Labby who, like me, is now off night duty.

“She attacked a patient,” says Labby.

“Attacked a patient?” I know the girl has a wild streak but I would have thought that she would have attacked one of the medical staff firSt Most of the rest of us would have done. “Why?”

“She was trying to rape him.”

“Rape him!?” I sit down on my bed and try and keep calm. “How can a woman rape a man?” I mean, I know that Penny is no slouch when it comes to flinging woo but this is ridiculous. Most of the patients are not in a fit state to be raped anyway.

“It was a man called Julian Mayfair. He’s in a plaster cast from the waist up.”

“What did she do to him!” I shriek. I mean, it’s awful, isn’t it?

“Calm yourself, Rosie. He was in a plaster cast to begin with. That’s how she managed to rape him.”

Julian Mayfair? It does ring a bell. I remember Penny mentioning some patient she had a crush on. A crush? It hardly bears thinking about.

“What happened?”

“She was potty about the chap but apparently he didn’t want to know. He was only interested in birds. I remember Penny saying that he was repressed and that she was going to liberate him. I heard him crying once when she gave him a blanket bath. Then came night duty.” I suck in my breath sharply. I was wondering what was going to happen when Penny went on nights. “Penny was able to resist him for a couple of nights and then—”

“Yes, yes.” It is not like Labby to hold back on any dirty details. I already know more about Tom Richmond’s body than he does.

“I can hardly bring myself to say it.”

“Force yourself,” I say grimly.

“I don’t know if I should.”

“Labby, I’m your friend.”

“You promise you won’t tell anybody? I don’t want it to get around.”

I have to fight hard to stop myself from laughing out loud. People tell Cilla Bias things because she is cheaper than Radio Luxembourg.

“You can rely on me.” If the girl does not spill the beans soon I am going to tear off her arm and beat the truth out of her with it.

“Of course, quite a lot of people know already so I suppose it won’t matter if I tell you.”

“Thanks a lot.”

Labby sits down on the bed beside me and takes a deep drag at her cigarette. “Well, you see, what happened is this …” I am expecting to hear the Archers theme music when the door opens and Penny comes in. Labby looks disappointed. “Oh,” she says. “Well, I suppose Penny can tell your herself, now.”

“Back to Daddy,” says Penny. “Oh dear. He is going to be disappointed.”

“Did you get the sack?” Labby sounds almost joyful.

“Yup,” Penny nods. “Matron told me to go and never darken her surgical swabs again.”

“How awful!” Labby rushes off to tell everybody.

“Penny! What have you done?” I gush, once we are alone.

“I’ve struck the first great blow for Women’s Lib. How many girls do you know that have raped a man? Whilst Greer writes, Green acts. From now on no man is safe. For every one of us that is raped, I’ll rape ten of them.”

“Penny, how did you do it?”

“Everybody asks me that. Nobody asks me why I did it.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Because I fancied him rotten and I felt sorry for him. I thought he was all shy and uptight. The product of thousands of years of sheltered upbringing and rubber sheets. In fact he was a fink. I realised that when he started screaming. I should have gagged him firSt”

“Or given him an anaesthetic.”

“Fat lot of good that would have been. There’s another example of discrimination for you. They can chloroform us and work their filthy wiles, we can’t chloroform them and work their filthy willies.”

“When did he start screaming?”

“Soon after I’d mounted him.”

“Mounted him!?”

“How did you think I was going to do it? Bore a hole in the bottom of the bed?”

“But how—I mean—”

“Darling, don’t be coy. It doesn’t suit you. Robert Flashcock said a few things about you that you wouldn’t like to see pinned up on Matron’s notice board.”

“I don’t know what he’s talking about. I fell asleep when I went round to his place.”

“Really? Well, I’ve heard of sleep walking but this was something else by all accounts.”

Typical, I think to myself. Why must men always justify their unpleasant actions by making up lies? First, those greasers with Natalie and now Flashlot—I mean, Fishcock—I mean, Oh! You know who I mean, with Penny. It really is not fair. Still, there is no point in making a fuss about it. Nobody ever believes you. “I’m more interested in hearing what you got up to,” I say.

“I realised how highly sexed he was when I gave him a blanket bath. He came up like a rocket launcher. Terribly embarrassed, too. I was really touched—so was he, actually.”

“I can imagine,” I say.

“When I was on nights I found myself thinking about him all the time. I was like a child left alone with a bag of sweets.”

“And he couldn’t move?”

“Only below the waiSt The rest of him was in plaster. He couldn’t move his arms. You can imagine how my heart went out to him. I thought I must be doing him a favour.”

“What did you do?”

“Careful, darling. You’re drooling. I held myself in check for a couple of nights and then I couldn’t restrain myself any longer. My oppo went off to see a chum and I could see this divine hunk flexing his toes in an agony of frustration. What am I here for? I asked myself. I must bring balm in whatever shape seems to be handiest at the time. I stole down the ward and got cracking with the screens. He had stopped moving around by then but I thought he was being discreet.”

“Uum,” I say.

“Tenderly I slid back the sheets and caressed him to a state of passive enthusiasm.”

“‘Passive enthusiasm’?”

“He was doing a marvellous imitation of the Eiffel Tower but his eyes were closed. I thought he was pretending to be asleep.”

“Then what happened?”

“When I saw the goodies it was right back to the sweets again. I always preferred hard centres. Never could stand strawberry whips, nothing kinky about me.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “Then what?”

“The floodgate broke. You know me, I was born to the saddle. When I saw his pommel I just had to pummel. I had my knicks off before you could say Tally Ho! and vaulted across his thighs. I’d only cantered a few hundred yards when he started screaming the place down. You know, I think he might really have been asleep all the time.”

“That might explain the screams.”

“That’s what I thought. After that, things became a bit sordid. Night Sister came along and all the screens fell down.”

“And you had to get off?”

“Well, I couldn’t stand the noise. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to rape a man but they make the most awful row. I don’t know what they’d be like if they had to have babies.”

“And they’re going to kick you out?”

“They have kicked me out. Matron was terribly cut up about it. I told her she was making a mountain out of a molehill—I don’t mean anything disrespectful by that, Julian was quite well endowed really—but it didn’t do any good. I think it was knowing the family that made it so difficult for her.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Right away. I’m just going to pack my things and chalk ‘G.B.H. is the worst poke in the hospital’ on the old bastard’s door and I’ll be off. Keep in touch. I don’t reckon you’re going to be able to stick this place much longer.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go home until Daddy gives me some money to clear off and do something else. I’ll send you a postcard.” Twenty minutes later she had gone. Of course, she was very free in her ways, but I know I am going to miss her.